


Not Sure I'm There Yet But I'm Certain I've Arrived

by MentalHealthMedic



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Body Swap, Gen, I have no idea what I'm doing, brother bonding, silly and fun
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-10-12
Packaged: 2021-02-22 11:56:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 17,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22782556
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MentalHealthMedic/pseuds/MentalHealthMedic
Summary: Jason finds himself waking up tied to a chair in an underground bunker. He's not too worried about it.Jason finds himself waking up in Dick's apartment. This he might be a little worried about.
Comments: 141
Kudos: 409





	1. I Woke Up in My Shoes Again but Somewhere You Exist

**Author's Note:**

> First crack at fan-fiction. Wanted to do something silly and light. Work title from "Young and Menace" by Fall Out Boy.
> 
> Enjoy!

Jason stares bleary-eyed at his captors and wonders about his predicament.  _ In retrospect,  _ he thinks, _ maybe going shot-for-shot with a group of Russian gangsters wasn’t the best idea _ . His four “drinking buddies” sit at a table in the corner, waiting to be paid for their capture of the notorious (and still drunk) Red Hood. His weapons, a knife and a pair of pistols he loaded with rubber bullets, sit in the center of the table. One of the Russian gangsters is playing with his grappling gun. A group of men in over-sized cloaks stand over Jason, while another checks the knot holding Jason to a chair bolted to the concrete floor.

“Red Hood” the one on the far left says, his voice sounding strained as he attempts to pitch it at a lower register. “You have been a thorn in the side of our organization for far too long.”

Jason thinks through the haze of his drunk-going-on-hungover mind, trying to piece together which criminal organization he’s pissed off this time. He was following a Black Mask deal that he had tracked to Russia, but these men don’t look like the sort of men the Gotham gang leader would trust to clean his toilet, let alone an international weapons-smuggling operation. Before Jason can respond, the cloaked man continues.

“Your crimes against us shall be paid!” He says, his voice cracking on the last word.

“And which crimes are those, exactly?” Jason asks, his voice shooting for politeness, but landing somewhere around “you woke me up at 3 am and dragged me to an undisclosed underground bunker.”

“You-“ the slim man in a cloak to the right of Jason begins, his face reddening. “You know exactly what they are!”

The man with the unkempt beard standing next to him places a hand on the slim man’s shoulder. “He’s just trying to get you riled up. We will have our vengeance,” his voice says soothingly.

Jason wishes he actually knew his “crimes” so he could gloat about them, but instead he settles for tipping his head up. The smuggest look he can pull off through the helmet.

The cloak on the far left frowns. “Red Hood, for the injustice you have committed against our family, we shall demand violence against yours! Reveal your true identity, and we shall make our revenge against your blood swift and, uh, bloody,” the man ends lamely.

The group stares down at Jason, their arms collectively crossed. “Nah,” Jason says casually.

“Reveal your name, or we shall inflict great harm!” The slim man squeaks.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he says, looking directly at the slim man.

“You will never know punishment like-“

“Punish me, Daddy.”

“YOU-“

“Okay okay, stop!” the man with the untamed beard says, stepping in front of the steadily reddening man. “Let’s just see who he is.” The bearded man steps towards Jason, his hands moving towards his helmet. 

He reaches for the hood, and Jason instinctively jerks his head away. Jason tries the knot holding his arms behind him. He can’t seem to get any slack, and his legs are tied securely to the chair, so he can’t get a good knee to the bearded captor. The cloaked man grabs Jason’s head and yanks the helmet upwards, forcing the chin-lock into Jason’s throat. 

“I can’t get it off,” the bearded man says, as another cloaked individual comes over to help. The two tug at the helmet while Jason struggles to breathe.

“Ow Ow! Guys! There’s a button on the bottom!” Jason chokes out.

The hands around Jason’s head immediately switch to rubbing the helmet, looking for the release button. The bearded man lets out a soft “ah ha” when he finds it, and he confidently removes the hood. He unceremoniously rips off Jason’s domino mask, and steps back to the other cloaked individuals.

The group studies Jason’s face in silence as Jason scrunches his face, trying to relieve the sting from the rough mask removal. 

“I don’t know why I thought this would help,” the bearded man says eventually. “I have no idea who this is. Do you guys know who this- Who are you?”

“Nuh-uh,” Jason coughs. “You lost all my good will towards you when you tried to decapitate me through blunt force. Figure it out yourselves.”

The cloaked group tries several methods to convince, bargain, and plead for Red Hood to reveal his real name. After several unsuccessful attempts to get Jason to speak through “torture” (using the loosest definition of the word), the group turns and huddles away from him. Jason hears pieces of conversation, including several lack-luster torture ideas and a plan to use facial recognition software that Jason is 98% sure this group of men in Party City costume cloaks cannot afford. 

“What about the truth spell?” one suggests.

“I don’t know that one yet,” the slim man responds, ashamed. “But I think I might be able to do a swap!”

“That’s not a bad idea! If we can get one of his kin that’s not such an _ asshole _ ,” the other says as he turns to cast a glare at Jason, “we can probably figure out who he really is.”

“Okay, then it is decided,” the bearded man declares loudly. The group turns to face Jason. He smiles at their attempt to appear menacing.

“Hum Roth Dar Mah Doh-“ the slim man begins to chant, holding his arms out and throwing his head back.

“It’s ‘Rath Dar Muh’, Clyde” a short man in the center of the group interrupts.

“Burk, shut up,” Clyde snaps, jerking his head to look down at the man. “I swear to god, you told me the ‘soul of the never resting spirit’ symbol was pronounced ‘Mah’ just yesterday.”

“Well, I asked Mikey about it afterwards and he told me it was ‘Muh,’” Burk counters, gesturing towards the bearded man. “And Mikeys a lot better at this than you are, asshole.”

“Brothers, brothers. Let us not call names,” The man Jason assumes is Mikey interjects calmly. “However, it is pronounced ‘Muh.’ You got ‘Roth’ right, though. Please continue.”

Clyde side-eyes Burk before continuing to chant. Jason stifles the urge to laugh and tries to piece together which one of his many recent Russian federal crimes was the one that caught the attention of this C-tier wizarding group.

He recounts his last week, but as he attempts to recall specific memories his mind becomes fuzzier. He feels far away, but the chanting is louder and louder in his head. Until it is all he can hear. It is all he can see. He’s swirling through the concept of the chanting, losing sense of time, space, and self. And then finally ...quiet.

...

…

...

Jason’s eyes fly open to a new sound. An upbeat voice singing loudly about how “all men are pigs” through a tinny phone speaker. The chorus stops and restarts as Jason searches blindly around for the source of the song. After the third repeat of the song, Jason finds the phone in the jumble of sheets around him, and turns off the alarm. In the silence, Jason numbly wonders how he got here and where “here” is. 

The scattered clothing around the room suggests a current occupant. Jason slowly lifts out of bed to realize he is in pajama bottoms he doesn’t recognize. Someone changed his clothes? He scrambles out of the bed and creeps towards the door, listening for anyone who may still be in the building. Suddenly, the phone on the bed lights up and starts to play “Jenny” by the Studio Killers. 

Jason walks back to the bed and looks at the phone. The phone is getting a call from  “(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧” and Jason jumps as he recognizes the picture of the woman with red hair. Barbara Gordon’s contact picture smiles as Jason’s head whips around the room, noticing all of the belongings that are now clearly Dick’s.

Jason picks up Dick’s phone and answers the call, hoping Barbara can help him sort out what kind of spell could teleport him from Russia to a very specific (messy) apartment in Bludhaven. 

“Boy Wonder isn’t here right now,” Jason starts, his voice coming out strange from exhaustion.

“ _ Funny,”  _ Barbara responds, _ “I’m actually surprised you’re awake. _ ”

“I don’t know who could sleep through that alarm.”

_ “Well, you manage it daily, _ ” Barbara snorts, her voice more cheerful and light than Jason has heard it in years. Conversations between himself and Barbara are usually all business, with a possible sprinkling of snide sarcasm if they’re feeling feisty.

“What’s got you all chipper this morning?” he asks, despite himself. 

“ _ What’s got you all cheerless this morning? _ ” she retorts.

“Probably that alarm. Look, can you check into something for me?” Jason asks, shifting the phone to put between his shoulder and his ear and moving towards the living room to find a pen and paper.

“ _ Oh, uh. Yeah. Is this work stuff? Because I was calling to let you know barring world-ending disaster, I’ve managed to get Cass on your patrol and Steph on your open cases tonight so you can go to Damian’s rehearsal. _ ”

Jason stalls. Why would Barbara expect Jason to go to Damian’s rehearsal? Jason isn’t even sure what the demon-child is rehearsing. Is this code?

Barbara interrupts Jason’s thoughts as he tries to decipher her message. “ _ Hey, it’s okay it slipped your mind. Don’t beat yourself up about it. You’ve got a lot going on. But seriously, take the night off.”  _ A crashing noise in the background followed by some embarrassed laughing from what Jason guesses is Jim causes Barbara to pause. Jason hears movement on the other line before Barbara continues, “ _ Oops, I gotta go. I’ll call you later, Dick _ .  _ Bye _ .”

Jason drops the phone just as Barbara ends the call. She had called him  _ Dick.  _ Suddenly Barbara’s casualness with him made sense. Jason stares around Dick’s apartment and looks down at Dick’s hands. He moves to the bathroom and looks at Dick’s face in Dick’s mirror. His hands push Dick’s long black hair out of the way to get a clear look at Dick’s clear blue eyes. The hands move to follow the hard line of Dick’s unshaven jaw. 

Jason sighs deeply; Dick’s chest rising and falling with the exhale. At least he’s not drunk anymore.


	2. Woke Up on the Wrong Side of Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick wakes up with a killer headache.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Young and Menace" by Fall Out Boy.

“Did it work?”

Dick keeps his eyes closed and pretends to sleep as he tries to recount the last twenty-four hours. He remembers finding Cass on patrol and begging her to take his route tomorrow. He could not miss Damian’s first choir performance tomorrow night. That adorable little monster has pipes. 

“I can’t tell, somebody shake him.”

Once he got home, he remembers texting Barbara about the patrol switch, doing his laundry, eating his left-over take-out, setting his phone alarm, and falling asleep in his bed. So how did he get here and get tied up? Was he kidnapped from his bed? He can’t feel his mask. Was he drugged? That would explain why it’s so hard to think. And the steadily growing headache.

“You do it, Jobe.”

Dick decides he needs more information, and opens an eye just as someone touches his shoulder. The man jumps slightly and quickly backs towards the other four men in cheap ankle-length robes surrounding his chair. They look inquisitively at Dick, and he opens both eyes and tilts his head in mirrored curiosity.

“Are you still, um. You?” a thin man asks hesitantly.

“Probably,” Dick says as he flashes a bright smile to hide his confusion. “I usually am.”

The group members turn towards each other, and mutter in low voices. Dick uses the time to take stock of his surroundings. The room is concrete, with no windows, and a metal door to Dick’s left. The dampness and temperature of the room suggests they are probably underground. He counts five physically unimpressive men in cloaks surrounding him, staring down. A movement catches his eye, and Dick notices four, much larger and intimidating, men shrouded in cigarette smoke in the back of the room. Dick revises his count to nine men total.

He looks down, studying his restraints. He’s tied with a thick cable, too thick to snap without a blade, to a metal chair bolted to the concrete floor. Dick leans experimentally to his left, testing the restraints and the chair. There is very little give to the cable, but the back right screw showed some promise. If he is left alone, he might be able to loosen the bolt. His best bet is likely the knot, however. He’s pretty sure it’s a variant of the restraint Bruce trained him on last February, and if he can create some slack by moving his shoulder-

Wait.

His shoulder is not moving nearly as freely. He’s in body armor. Dick attention shifts from his restraints to the clothing underneath. He’s in heavy combat boots, thick black pants, and a faux-leather jacket that smells like it was made of lit cigarettes. These are not his clothes. The brushed metal bat symbol on his chest screams significance, but through throbbing of his headache it takes several seconds for it to click together.

“Red Hood,” a bearded man says as the group of cloaked men turns back towards Dick. “You have resisted our spell-work, but no matter. We shall find other ways to, uh. We have other ways of making you talk,” he finishes with an embarrassed frown.

So, they think he is Red Hood. That would explain why he’s in Jason’s uniform, but not how he got into the uniform. Or into this room. 

But he can play along.

Before he can think of a response worthy of the  _ dastardly _ super-criminal Red Hood, one of the men in the back clears his throat. He stands, disturbing the cloud of cigarette smoke. The others sitting at the table look on at the cloaked figures with disinterest. Immediately, the bearded man tenses, and turns slowly towards the group of smokers. 

“Our payment,” the man says in a heavy Russian accent, snuffing out his cigarette on the table. 

“Ah, yes. Well, we- we have that,” the bearded man stammers. “Just, uh. Not right now?”

The other three men around the table stand with heavy sighs and calmly snuff out their cigarettes in succession.

“I mean, of course you’ll get paid. You were instrumental in the capture of Red Hood! But not right- right now,” he continues. The cloaked men look quickly between the bearded man and the smokers.

With all eyes off of him, Dick goes to work on his restraints. He wasn’t necessarily worried about the Spirit Halloween costume wizards, but he doesn’t like the idea of being tied to a chair when the Russian smokers realize Red Hood might have the location to a couple weapons caches.

The knot is familiar enough, but he can’t seem to stretch his back in the same way to give himself enough slack to twist his right wrist. He decides to dislocate his thumb instead, hoping he doesn’t have to do any precision bomb-defusal in the next few hours.

The cables silently fall from Dick’s wrists as the conversation heats up between the bearded man and the group of men Dick has just gathered are Russian gangsters. Hands now free, Dick re-positions his thumb with a soft grunt. Dick slowly wiggles out of his binds, listening intently to the conversation for any clue of his location with no avail. The groups argue for a few minutes about the compensation the Russians are due; the gangsters demanding double for capturing Red Hood, allowing this group of Kobra-Cult-dropouts to use their base, and enduring the insult of being asked to wait for payment. 

As Dick hastily kicks the cables loose around his ankles, wondering idly if he has an ethical responsibility to protect his beginner-level kidnappers from the Russian mafia, he hears a shout from one of the cloaked figures. “Muh Koh Ron Dah!” he says, holding his arms wide. There is a pause, and the two groups look at each other in confusion.

“Der?” another suggests, shrugging his shoulders.

“Muh Koh Ron Der!” the first corrects, and suddenly a thick black smoke fills the room. 

Dick throws the loose cables off his chest and arms and springs forward, arms held ready to block. The sound of a firearm going off makes Dick change tactics entirely, dropping to the floor and hoping to locate the source of the shot. He had hoped the smoke would be thinner near the floor, but it seems magically evenly distributed. Thankfully, it also doesn’t seem to be toxic, and Dick is able to breathe easily as he begins to crawl towards the door. 

Another shot goes off, closer now, and Dick readies to spring up again. A pair of red converse shoes runs behind him and trips over his ankle. The panicking man yelps in surprise as the cheap velvet cloak tangles around his body. Dick shuffles to a squatting position just as another pair of boots emerges from the black smog.

One of the Russian gangsters glares down at the bearded man struggling to get free of his cloak. He raises his handgun, and Dick leaps just as he pulls the trigger. Dick registers the muffled gasp of pain from the man on the ground just as he makes contact with the six-foot-seven Goliath.

They both fall to the floor in surprise. Dick hadn’t intended to topple him, just stagger him enough to put him at a disadvantage. As they fall, Dick rolls so he has the man below him, but he is too slow to pin both arms. The gangster, recovering quickly from his surprise, points the pistol at Dick’s chest and fires. 

He panics. Dick knows Jason’s body armor, as good as it is, can’t stop a bullet at point-blank range. The shot staggers him, and he falls to the side, gasping for air. He desperately prays the bullet missed his heart and lungs, but he knows the chances of that are slim to none. His hands move quickly to his chest, hoping by some miracle he can stop the bleeding, but they come up dry. He looks down; no blood. He pats his chest again, air returning to his lungs, and feels the bruise steadily growing on his sternum. Either Jason’s armor is better than he thought, or-

The bearded man on the floor coughs and the gangster looks sharply towards him in confusion.  _ Yup, _ Dick thinks,  _ rubber bullets. _ By some outrageously dumb luck from a fickle God, the gun was loaded with rubber bullets. Dick’s sigh of relief comes out as a cough. He smiles as he pulls himself to a standing position as the gangster scrambles to his feet, throwing the less-deadly-than-expected gun to the ground in frustration. 

Dick raises his fists again as the gangster raises a large clip point pocket knife. He flashes another smile and jumps to the side just as the man lunges the blade forward. The knife cuts a shallow wound into Dick’s shoulder as he spins to grab the gangster’s arm by the elbow. He normally would have been able to dodge the attack cleanly, but Dick is moving slowly, as if he was weighed down. Dick throws his left forearm up to block another attack, and releases the gangster’s elbow to throw a right hook to the man’s chin. 

The gangster crumples and Dick steps back in astonishment. The blow landed heavier than he expected. Dick shrugs before he turns and sprints towards the metal door, but he runs straight into two more of the Russian mobsters.

Dick rolls between them, sweeping his leg out as he comes out of the roll to unsteady the Russian man on the left. He swings his arms up in an X to block an incoming knife attack from the man on the right, and grabs the man’s wrist. He twists it, attempting to disarm the man, and hears a sharp crack. The man yelps in pain and falls to his knees clutching his wrist, as Dick turns to the man steadying himself on the left. Dick aims a kick at his head, but the man ducks slightly and his foot sails clean over. Dick growls in frustration. He is usually able to rely on his speed to avoid telegraphing his moves, but his agility is not at it’s usual level. 

As his foot comes down, Dick rotates his hips and throws the back of his elbow to the man’s face. He staggers, clutching his nose with one hand, and reading a firearm at Dick with the other. Dick fients a jump to the side and barrels forward, throwing a knee to the man’s chin. It connects easily, despite the man’s height, and he falls to the ground, unconscious.

A sudden stab of white-hot heat to Dick’s shoulder causes him to hiss in pain. Dick grabs the pocket knife from his back and turns to face the gangster with the broken wrist. Dick’s vision tunnels, and he feels a deep rage cloud his thoughts. The knife in his hand starts to tremble as Dick calculates all the deadliest angles to throw the knife, estimating how quickly it would take the man to bleed out. 

Dick blinks and drops the knife, just as the fourth gangster tackles Dick from behind. Recovering from his daze, Dick uses the man’s momentum to fling him into the gangster with the broken wrist, sending both of them tumbling. He springs forward, throwing heavy blows to both men, knocking them out. 

He stands, suppressing the wave of rage egging him to do more, and scans the room for more threats. The smoke is dissipating, turning into a thin grey haze. The cloaked figures, excluding the one groaning on the floor, appear to have escaped in the chaos. Dick thinks about his next steps about getting out of the Russian compound, when the red hood catches his eye. 

He walks over to it, wondering again why the wizard-wannabes would dress him in Jason’s gear. Even though they didn’t recognize his identity, he figures it can’t hurt to hide his face. Dick reaches to pick up the helmet, but he stops before he puts it on.

The reflection in the hood, distorted from the curvature and glossed in a red tint, causes Dick to stare. Jason stares back, his square jaw dropping in surprise. Dick runs a free hand through Jason’s hair, feeling the course texture of his white forelock. The clothes, the identity confusion, and the fucking rubber bullets start to form into an explanation. Dick’s thoughts spin as he drops the helmet, stomach twisting in discomfort and the headache in his head growing to an overwhelming level. The clarity comes to him all at once, just as he vomits on the concrete floor. 

Dick is in Jason’s body. And this motherfucker is hungover.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was so excited to get everyone's comments from last chapter! This one took a little longer to edit than I anticipated, but I hope you enjoy! Next up is Jason again.


	3. Some of Us Go Through Some Changes, Some of Us Go Through Some Phases

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason does a little brainstorming and a little cleaning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Help" by The Front Bottoms.

“Ok, ok, ok, ughh-- FUCK, ok” Jason says to himself frantically. He’s in someone else’s body, half a world away, with no idea of _his_ body’s actual location. There’s no way the equipment in his safe-house can locate his body, and he purposely left his phone three countries away so Batman would be unable to use it to track him. He was playing Bruce’s non-lethal game for now, but he didn’t need big brother watching his every move.

He begins to pace around Dick’s apartment, kicking discarded pieces of clothing as he goes. He can’t use any of his fake identities to get to Russia, and he doesn’t know where Dick keeps his fake passports. _Kick_ . Roy is off-world with Kori, so he can’t use his tech. _Kick._ His contacts in Russia won’t trust Dick, and it’s not exactly like he was making a lot of friends over there anyway. _Kick kick._ He didn’t know the name of the group that kidnapped him, or if they were connected with Black Mask. _Kick._ Even his fucking laptop is in the other country.

His last kick sends a discarded Two-Door Cinema Club t-shirt flying into a lampshade, knocking it over.

Jason sighs heavily. _This place is disgusting_ he thinks to himself, toeing some clothing with his foot into a small pile. He moves to pick up the lamp on the far side of the room, and surveys Dick’s apartment. 

It’s messy. Scattered discarded garments dot the floor. Half-opened stacks of mail lie abandoned on three different tables. An empty box of Chinese take-out sits on the coffee table, likely from the night before. Dick’s laptop is set out open on the couch, it’s charging cable draped across the armrest and plugged into the adjacent wall. Several books are stacked haphazardly by the other side of the couch, where Dick had clearly dropped them after losing interest or attention. 

As Jason continues to examine the room, he amends his original judgment from _messy_ to _thoroughly lived-in_. Photographs hang on the walls, exhibiting the smiling faces of various friends and family. A particularly blurry photo of Tim in the midst of a one-handed cartwheel rests on the kitchen counter, waiting to be put in a frame. A soft hum comes from a standing fan left on overnight. The warm light of the day peeks in through half-open window shades. The apartment looks more like a home than any of Jason’s semi-permanent living spaces, he realizes with an unexpected twinge of sadness.

Dick’s phone buzzes from the floor and startles Jason out of his rumination. He crouches to pick up the phone, and sees a text from Tim illuminating the newly-cracked screen. The content of the message does not display on the home screen, but thankfully Jason acquired Dick’s phone password several weeks ago. (After he pick-pocketed the phone from Dick for his own amusement and then demanded it’s password in exchange for returning it). 

_Are you sticking around after the demon’s thing?_ The message reads. 

Jason waits. Three dots show Tim typing, and a second later another text comes through.

_I’ve got some work stuff you can help me with at the manor._

“Work stuff” at the manor. Jason stifles his initial urge to text back something snarky about how Tim asks for help, and considers the opportunity. Tim wouldn’t text Dick about Wayne Enterprises work, so it’s almost certainly “work” they would do in the cave. He hadn’t considered using the Batcave’s computer to track his body down. 

In his usual brainstorming of solutions, using Batman’s equipment is ruled out early for being too frustrating of an endeavor. Navigating Bruce’s suspicion, guilt, and self-righteous lectures is usually too much for Jason to handle, so he figures out something else that won’t make him want to kill somebody out of spite. But Dick is the golden child who can do no wrong. Bruce won’t even bat an eye if Boy Wonder asks to use the computer.

_Fuck yes,_ Jason types. He considers the text for a moment and deletes it. _Of course, I’d love to,_ he revises.

After pressing send, Jason closes the message and opens Dick’s google calendar. To keep up with appearances, Jason figures he needs to attend the brat’s unspecified rehearsal. The easier he can get into the manor and get out without the whole “Jason can’t be trusted” rigmarole, the better. He’s willing to sit through whatever play, orchestra, or dance rehearsal the tiny Satan throws at him to make that happen. 

The only event in Dick’s calendar for the week is an event labeled “!!DAMIAN!!” from 6 pm to 9 pm on Thursday with an attached address to Gotham Academy. Jason furrows his brow at the date, briefly wondering if he somehow went back in time, before he remembers the time difference between Gotham and eastern Russia. Jason closes the app and checks the clock. 11 o’clock. This means he has about six hours to kill before he has to get ready and drive to Gotham. 

Jason stares at the small pile of clothes he kicked together. It’s not his apartment, he doesn’t owe Dick any favors, and he certainly doesn’t do things out of the kindness of his heart, but... 

“It’s going to bother me if I don’t,” Jason says to himself, as he leans down to pick up the pile. 

___

  
  


Cleaning Dick’s apartment turns out to be an enlightening experience. In the sense that Jason is enlightened as to how bad Dick’s attention span really is. 

When Jason goes to put clothes in the washing machine in the apartment (he should look for safe-houses with in-apartment washing units from now on, it’s the greatest), he finds clothes already IN the wash that had not been moved to the dryer. After mentally screaming, he runs the load again. Just in case they had gotten moldy sitting in the washer. 

He then goes about picking up all the various pieces of mail and paper strewn across the apartment, and organizing it on the kitchen counter. He finds a parking ticket that needs to be paid, which he puts on top of the pile. Right above the photograph of Tim. He throws out the, frankly, unreasonable number of receipts he finds from BatBurger and the nearby Chinese restaurant. Random scraps of paper with reminders to call various people or to “wash bike in front of hot neighbor ;)” also find their way to the can. In the mess of papers, Jason discovers the flyer for the event he is attending tonight, and solves the mystery of what kind of rehearsal Damian is in: choir. (Who knew Damian could sing?)

After that, he goes about picking up the dirty dishes left on the kitchen counter and coffee table, and putting them in the sink. Dick has a dish-washing machine, but it’s full, so Jason runs the machine while he hand washes the other dishes. 

When he hears the washing machine cycle end, he goes back to move the clothes to the dryer. He puts the collected floor-clothes into the wash and goes back to the kitchen to put the dishes away.

At the end of the six hours, Jason collapses onto the couch with a smile of accomplishment. He had taken out the trash (full of expired food from Dick’s fridge), put Dick’s clothes away, cleared the counters, returned the books to their shelf, cleaned the floors, collected various items that belonged in the bathroom and put them back in their spot, and even scrubbed the goddamn toilet.

He closes his eyes for a minute before he realizes he smells. He’s 90% sure Dick didn’t shower after patrol last night, and cleaning Dick’s apartment for half the day didn’t help. He groans, considering his options. He could go to the rehearsal stinking to high-heaven, but that would draw attention to him. Attention he is explicitly trying to avoid. 

Otherwise, he could shower. He has the time before he needs to get on the road. But he’d have to look at Dick’s… 

Whatever. He’s an adult. If Jason is stuck in this body for the next few hours at least, he’d prefer it be clean.

___

In the end, Jason ran the shower while staring resolutely at the ceiling the entire time. Everything was clean, but he also had the human decency to respect Dick’s dick-privacy. 

Jason steps out of the shower, and throws a towel around his waist. He moves to the sink, and begins brushing his teeth in front of the mirror, studying Dick’s face. 

Looking closely, he can see the minute imperfections he never noticed. Small acne scars around Dick’s nose and chin. The beginnings of crow’s-feet around Dick’s eyes. Jason counted the grey hairs scattered among Dick’s dark locks. Nothing like Jason’s own streak of white, courtesy of the Lazarus Pit, but seven little hairs, shining out through the midnight black.

They were imperfections in the cosmetic-industry sense, but they fit so neatly into what Dick was. Signs of an active life, full of laughter and vigilante stress. Evidence that Dick had an awkward teenage stage and that he was slightly aging away from it every day. They showed a cohesive narrative of one life, living steadily forward. No evidence of an abrupt pause, sectioning his experience into a “before” and “after.” Jason blinks away the mist forming in his eyes. He finishes brushing his teeth staring at the sink. 

Jason finishes in the bathroom by lathering on some deodorant, and he moves to Dick’s bedroom to find something to wear. He finds the only dress shirt in Dick’s closet that does not require serious ironing. He pulls his arms through the maroon button-up, and digs through Dick’s dresser to find a pair of black pants and a striped grey and black tie to match. Not willing to hunt for a better pair, Jason elects to wear Dick’s shoes from his police uniform after they receive a liberal spray of Febreze.

He checks the clock on the wall, 5:38 pm. A little later than anticipated, but he can make it if he drives a little fast. And he has no moral qualms about driving fast. He grabs the keys and wallet he had fished out of Dick’s couch earlier that day, locates a suitable jacket, unplugs Dick’s phone from the charging cable, and is on Dick’s bike by 5:40 flat. 

__

  
  


The motorcycle pulls up to the school five minutes past the hour, with Jason a little windswept, but no worse for wear. He smooths Dick’s chin-length hair into a presentable state, wondering how boy wonder stands it, and navigates his way towards the school’s auditorium.

A twinge of nostalgia hits as Jason walks. He never attended this school, but the colorful projects that line the walls remind him of his days at Gotham City Middle. School always felt like a haven from the world, and stepping back into one fills him with an emotion he can’t quite pinpoint. 

His brisk pace prevents him from ruminating too long on this, and before he knows it he arrives at the auditorium doors. 

Parents are still milling in the aisles when he walks in, and Jason finds himself a spot in the back right corner. A plump woman with short brown hair, likely in her early 40's, sees Jason and waves excitedly before sitting next to him.

“Richard! Oh wait! No. Dick. You prefer Dick, don’t you? I keep forgetting,” she says.

“Uh…” Jason begins, entirely unprepared for this conversation.

“Dick, how are you? You look nice today! Never seen you in red before. Is this a phase?” She looks at him pseudo-suspiciously and laughs. Without waiting for a response, she continues with her apparent stream of consciousness.“Kyle is in a phase, you know. Goth. I support it, you know. It only hurts kids when they don’t feel they can explore their identity. My wife is a psychiatrist, and she said that it’s all part of normal development to rebel against their parents and try new things. No use fighting unnecessary battles.”

Jason watches the woman in slight amazement, as she rambles and gesticulates without ever pausing to breathe. “And I do!” She continues, unaware of his bewilderment. “I let him do his own thing. Hell, I want my kid to feel supported in doing what he loves, even if I don’t get it. For the most part. I’m not gonna be the ‘cool’ mom if he does drugs or something. But you know what he said to me the other day?”

She finally pauses, waiting for a reply. Completely out of his depth, Jason provides the response she is clearly looking for, “what?”

“He said, honest to god, ‘It’s not a phase, mom.’” Her laugh comes out almost as a cackle, loud and genuine. “We were at Hot Topic and I had just said something about how expensive this phase was. You know, joking around with him. And he turns to me, all seriousness, and says ‘its not-’” She laughs again. “That! Can you believe it? It’s like straight out of a Facebook me-me.” She closes her eyes and clutches her chest, tears forming in her eyes from laughter.

Jason laughs halfheartedly, and turns to look at the mass of parents, hoping for anything that could stop this conversation. 

“Hey, you okay?” She looks at him seriously, her voice softening. She follows his gaze to the crowd and frowns. “Ah, Bruce isn’t here, is he?”

Her question surprises him, and he briefly turns to her before he scans the attendees, looking for Bruce. His hulking form is nowhere to be seen. “I guess not,” he says. “Must be busy.”

“He’s busy a lot,” she says.

The lights dim and Jason is saved from trying to provide a response. A spotlight follows a squat man as he walks towards a microphone in the center of the stage. He introduces himself as the choir director and gives a short speech that Jason does not bother to pay attention to. Something about the hard work the choir has put in and the songs they will sing tonight. When the speech ends, Jason joins in the clapping, just to celebrate his departure from the stage.

As the man walks to the side of the stage, two large curtains open and reveal several raised, bleacher-like platforms. A host of preteens in white shirts with bright red bow-ties file onto the stage, and step up on the platforms. 

When Damian walks on stage, Jason snickers. With a wicked grin, he takes Dick’s phone out to try and capture Damian’s ridiculous tie. The woman next to Jason also has her phone out, snapping picture after picture. Jason glances at her, and watches as she captures the moment, her smile full of excitement and pride.

Jason looks at the phone in his hands and wonders about its owner. Dick would have the same look on his face if he were here. Jason had kept himself busy all day so he did not have to think too deeply about his current situation. 

Reflecting on it, he was fairly sure if he was in Dick’s body, then Dick was in his. While the idea that Dick was using his hands and guns deeply offended him, he also had a large amount of guilt. Dick was not only unable to attend the choir rehearsal he clearly wanted to be at (given the all-capital-letter calendar reminder), but he was also tied up in a Russian bunker somewhere. It wasn’t Jason’s fault they switched bodies, but it was Jason’s fault that when they switched Dick got the short end of the stick.

_Thankfully_ , Jason reassures himself, _those guys were morons._ Dick had been held hostage more times than Jason could easily count, and he doubted Dick was in very much danger from the cloaked weirdos and their hired guns. He was confident Dick could get out of that situation without too much damage. _Still,_ he thinks _the sooner I can find him, the better._ The idea of Dick piloting Jason’s body pretending to be him made Jason want to slam pretty boy’s head into a wall with Jason inside.

The choir begins to sing and Jason picks up the phone in his hand once more. He assuages some of his guilt by recording the performance. At least this way, Dick can watch the video. 

Between each song, the choir director steps forward and briefly introduces the next song and it’s composer. The choir sings well, but by the third song, Jason has gotten bored. He rests the phone upright on his knee to record and zones out, thinking about how to narrow the search criteria to find his body. About halfway through, the choir director says Damian’s name, and Jason’s drifting attention snaps back to the performance.

Damian steps forward to the microphone and all but glares at the audience. Squinting into the spotlights, Jason can tell he’s searching for a familiar face, and Jason sits upright. When Damian’s eyes finally land on him, Damian nods almost imperceptibly and begins to sing.

The song begins with Damian alone, his prepubescent soprano voice swelling and fading in a bittersweet sound. The choir joins in softly with the third swell, adding emphasis to the passion of the song and surging Damian forward into an all-out fortissimo. Jason’s eyes go wide and his eyebrows shoot towards the ceiling. Not only could the kid sing, the kid had pipes. He belatedly realizes he had let the phone tilt towards the floor, and he quickly readjusts. 

Damian’s voice rings out through the rest, and when the song comes to an abrupt drop in volume, the effect is staggering. The choir quiets and the last few lines are Damian alone, the final tragedy of the melody captured by his quiet warble. He ends the song with decrescendo accompanied by a look of profound uncertainty and loss. Jason is struck by Damian’s vulnerability at this moment; he has never looked more like a child.

The audience erupts in applause and Damian’s face rearranges itself into a look of smug superiority Jason has grown accustomed to. Jason joins in the clapping, and receives a supportive elbow-nudge from the woman next to him. Damian gives a final grin at the audience before he steps back to join the rest of the choir on the platforms. 

The concert continues and Jason dutifully records the rest of the songs, although the quality diminishes significantly towards the end. It is clear the members practiced the first several songs much more than the back few. 

When the rehearsal ends, Jason quickly retreats from the auditorium before the woman next to him can rope him into another conversation. He spots Alfred at the front of the building, waiting to pick Damian up, and he gives a short wave from a distance as he walks towards Dick’s motorcycle. He sends Damian a quick text saying he’ll see him at the manor, and hops on the bike. 

Once he is on the road, he releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He rarely saw the bats outside of their work, and going to that school and seeing Damian sing… It reminded Jason of when his life wasn’t only fighting crime. Before. He wasn’t sure what to do with these memories. He felt as if he had lost something just within arms reach. Something dangling in front of him that he knew he couldn’t have. 

Jason shook his head and drove a little faster, letting the wind blow his thoughts into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter just kept getting longer and longer. Threw in pinch of angst, too, for good measure. 
> 
> Next chapter is back to Dick.


	4. And There's a Madness That's Just Coursing Right Through Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick is in Jason's body, in a bunker, in the middle of nowhere. He's doing the best he can.

Dick sits crouched on the balls of his-- er, Jay’s-- feet, staring at the vomit expelled from Jay’s body. Is it his own puke? Would Jay have puked if Dick wasn’t in his body? What constitutes his “self” and what constitutes Jason’s? How does he have his own memories if he’s using Jay’s brain? Is he even “Dick” anymore? Is the self merely an emergent phenomenon secondary to the biological material we are made of, or is it an immaterial being whose existence transcends the sum of our physical-- Dick shakes his head.  _ If I think too hard on this, _ Dick thinks as he stands up,  _ I’m going to puke again. _

The red hood had rolled to a corner of the room when Dick dropped it, so he hesitantly walks over to retrieve it. He actively avoids looking at his reflection this time. Instead, he notices how the helmet feels in his hands. It is lighter than he expects, given all the machinery inside. He peers inside, trying to visually follow the paths of wires and understand their purpose. Dick prays the bomb Jason had installed in the helmet years ago has been removed. He didn’t like the idea of Jay walking around with the risk of blowing his own head off constantly, and he really doesn’t like the idea of blowing his own head off.

Dick briefly calculates the risks and rewards of putting the helmet on. He decides to trust that if the bomb is there, Jay designed it so it won’t just go off, and he ducks his head into the red hood.

It smells worse than the jacket. The reek of alcohol from Jason’s breath is trapped within the hood, making Dick gag. He fumbles with the small dials on the side of the helmet, looking for the air filter while trying not to breathe.

After accidentally turning on the internal display and a very suspicious five-minute timer that he quickly disabled, he finds a button that activates a small exhaust fan inside the helmet, circulating the air in and out. 

Once the air within the helmet is breathable again, Dick pats the pockets of Jay’s jacket, looking for a phone. He isn’t sure where he is, and he doesn’t know how he got switched into Jay’s body. He suspects the cloaked figures had something to do with it, and maybe if he called Zatanna, she’d be able to help. He couldn’t remember if she was off-world on a mission, but if he couldn’t reach her, Martian Manhunter could probably help in a pinch. Worst case, he’d just call the cave and get Batman on it. 

However, if he could avoid it, he’d prefer not to involve Bruce. Anything involving Bruce and Jason just ended up in headaches and, occasionally, gunshot wounds. But he couldn’t deny Bruce was a neurotic pedant who would stop at nothing to make sure everything was put right, especially if something was wrong with his team.

Dick checks every obvious pocket in the jacket, even a few hidden ones, and finds caffeine pills, Aspirin, Jay’s communicator earpiece, a USB, 5 keys, and a pocket knife the Russian mob had failed to confiscate. No phone. He checks the pockets of the pants, uncovering numerous first-aid, lock picking, and navigational tools but failing to find the black Nokia flip-phone. Jay kept the flip-phone around on missions due to its durability and, Dick surmised, the fact he could be smug about not owning a smartphone. Dick intended to gift him a “burner” smartphone this Christmas, so Jay could check his emails at dinner and watch YouTube on the toilet. Just as God intended. 

Coming up empty-handed, Dick walks to the table where the Russian mobsters were sitting and examines the gear seized from Jason. The pistols loaded with rubber bullets were gone, grabbed by various gang members. Jay’s absurd amount of hunting and throwing knives sat in a pile next to his grappling gun, a belt of ammo, an ashtray, and a half-empty bottle of tequila. Still no phone. Dick reattaches the equipment to his person before turning to collect the guns from the unconscious mobsters. 

Re-equipped and re-armed, Dick removes the helmet so he can place the communicator in his ear. A hum of static in his ear lets him know the comm is on. “Hello, hello?” he says, Jason’s voice mildly surprising him before he remembers. 

He waits, but no response comes. Even in the daytime, Bruce or Tim will have their comm set to alert them if anyone is active. He tries again, to no avail. The comm was designed to pick up secure frequencies from the team within the limits of Gotham city proper, and can pick up cave frequencies from almost a state away, so Dick is pretty sure he’s not in Gotham. 

The static whining aggravates his headache, so he sets it to “standby” and sighs with relief. If anyone comes within range and tries to contact him, it will alert him, but the sound is off and his end is muted. 

Dick places the hand holding the helmet on his hip and pinches the bridge of his nose with the other. With no cell phone and an out-of-range comm, Dick’s chances of getting a message out are slim. He decides that getting out of the compound is priority number one. He can figure out where he is and how to get home to his body once he’s not underground.

He swallows two pills of Aspirin to quell the headache and ducks his head into the helmet once more. He fiddles with some more buttons and dials on the bottom of the helmet, and manages to find the navigator. He’s frustrated but not surprised to find the navigator has no signal, and decides to get above ground before he tries again. 

=====

Dick peeks his head out into the hallway, listening for any Russian gangsters or retreating cult members. Distant shouting coming from the right convinces Dick to turn left down the corridor. After a few turns, he ends up at a dead-end with a door to his right. With the voices behind Dick getting louder, he opens the door and sneaks in as quietly as he can. 

It’s not quiet enough, however, and 3 heads turn as Dick enters. Behind them, several video monitors blink, showing blocks of text, schematics of weaponry, and rapidly changing numbers. Three monitors appear to be security cameras, showing rotating videos of different hallways. Another monitor shows a number of still images of men in suits, with chat bubbles next to the pictures. Dick does a double-take as he recognizes one of the men in the images, a man in a white suit with a charcoal-grey skull for a face. 

“Black Mask is involved with this?” Dick says in surprise, his vigilante training failing once again to control his mouth. 

In response, the three mobsters raise their firearms. Dick drops and rolls forward as they open fire. He comes out of the roll in front of the man in the middle, and knocks the gun from his hands as he springs up. He grabs the man’s wrist and turns him—pulling him to his chest, putting an elbow around his neck, and using his wide frame as a shield. He uses his free hand to unclasp the pistol on his hip. 

Shoving the man in his hold into the woman on the right, he fires three rubber bullets into the chest of the man on the left, staggering all three gangsters. Crossing the room in two long strides, he delivers a right hook to the woman recovering her balance. She crumbles, unconscious.

The man he shoved surges forward, throwing a fist towards Dick’s neck. Dick steps backwards, and the punch sails through empty air, the gangster stumbling behind it. Dick grabs the back of the man’s head as he stumbles. 

A hint of green creeps into the edge of Dick’s vision as he kicks his knee up and throws the man’s face onto it, nose breaking with a distinctive crack. The gangster collapses into his colleague as he joins her in an equally unconscious heap. 

The man on the left, coughing, throws his gun across the room and puts his hands up, eyes wide. Dick crosses the room and grabs the man, lifting him by his neck. He shoves him against the wall, the ring of green impinging more and more on his vision. 

“What is going on?” Dick growls, fist clenching on the man’s windpipe. “Where am I? Why is Black Mask involved?”

A gurgled wheeze comes from the man, toes barely touching the ground, grasping at Dick’s arm. A radio’s quiet tune can be heard in the back of the room, disrupted only by the man’s gasps for air. The green haze fills Dick’s sight as the man’s eyes start to roll back, his arms losing strength as he claws at Dick’s wrist. 

Just then, the door behind them bursts open. Dick releases the man with a grunt and turns to the noise. Three more men burst in, likely drawn by the sound of gunfire. He drops his shoulder and rushes them before they have time to raise their weapons. He knocks them out in a blur of emerald rage, his muscles screaming to break, tear, and otherwise destroy anyone in their path. 

Before he knows it, he has three unconscious figures at his feet. Fire in his chest, he imagines the figures bleeding and writhing. He envisions their blood, expanding infinitely into a green void. The idea brings a sense of determined calm. He mindlessly unclasps the knife attached to a belt on his ribs, and holds it with an indescribable excitement. His knuckles turn white as he grasps the handle, his mind screaming to stab downward into the man beneath him. The screaming forms a wordless thought: a promise of divine clarity only achieved only through righteous bloodshed.

The radio switches songs, a familiar tinny pop song coming through its low-volume speakers. He recognizes the song, something from his teenage years when he had just moved to the Titans tower. 

He looks at the knife in his hands, shaking in his tight grip. Why was he holding it? The song continues, bringing with it memories of happy friendships and diluting the rage in Dick’s chest. His vision begins to clear, the green tendrils seeping back into his periphery. What was he about to…

The knife falls from Dick’s hands, clattering onto the concrete floor. He was about to kill a man. He might have already killed one. He rushes over to the man in the corner, and fumbles to find a pulse. He finds one, steady and strong, and he notices the man’s chest rising and falling. He does a quick check of the other gangsters, and exhales relief when he confirms they are all alive, just knocked out. Blacking out from blunt-force-trauma isn’t great for the brain, Dick ruefully acknowledges, but it’s certainly better than being dead. 

Dick takes a deep breath, trying to calm his nerves. He knows Jason is stronger than he is, so he’s not surprised his punches are hitting harder, but he never loses control like this. He’s a little stressed, sure, but “a little stressed” is basically baseline for a vigilante. He’s better than this, he needs to handle this, he can’t afford to be off his game, even if he’s in a new body. He notices he’s been holding his breath, and releases it in a controlled exhale. 

He glances over at the monitors. The chat between Black Mask and several other businessmen continues on, unaware of his interruption. He takes a seat on the edge of a chair near the screen displaying weapon schematics. He briefly looks through the weapons before switching to the chat. 

Several different conversations are displayed, all discussing weapons smuggling from a production center in St. Petersburg. Switching between the screens displaying maps, pricing, and schematics, Dick pieces together the structure of the operation. 

The production center is illegally acquiring military schematics for weaponry from corrupt politicians, and the weapons produced are being shipped to holding facilities before they can be smuggled across the globe. This building itself is a weapons holding facility run by a steadily growing criminal organisation based in Kamchatka, Russia. It’s main export route? Straight into his very own Gotham City.

Black Mask’s chat bubble pops up again, coordinating the shipment of a full crate of semi-automatic rifles to Gotham’s pier. An explanation was forming in Dick’s mind for why Jason was in an underground Russian base. Jason kept close tabs on the criminal factions of Gotham’s underworld, Black Mask’s gang in particular. If Jason was here, he was trying to cut Black Mask’s supplier off at the head.

Dick pulls one of the USBs from a hidden pocket in Jason’s suit, and downloads as much of the incriminating information as he can. Enough to locate the production facility and to hopefully arrest Black Mask. He’s not excited to learn Jason left him in the middle of snowy nowhere, but he’s still a professional.

Before he leaves, Dick checks the security camera feeds, setting them to loop the last 15 minutes. He uses the computer to plot his route out of the compound. He smiles, a plan finally forming and the headache finally receding from his head. He checks the unconscious men on the ground once more, and creeps out of the room as they start to stir.

He leaves the knife on the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Young and Menace" by Fall Out Boy. I like the song a lot, okay?
> 
> THank you all for your kind comments! It's really been motivating me :))


	5. Insolent and Out of Character

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason arrives to the manor and attempts his best Richard Grayson impression.

Jason arrives at Wayne Manor windswept and apprehensive. The peace he achieved from the open road became completely negated the minute he turned down the long driveway. Every nerve in his body is urging him to turn around and go anywhere else. He watches the windows of the manor, scanning for movement and attempting to motivate himself to step off the bike and walk inside.

He sits, frozen, long enough to hear the crunch of gravel behind him, signaling the arrival of Alfred and Damian. As the Black Audi turns into the garage, Jason forces himself out of his stupor and drags his leg over the motorcycle.

_ This is stupid _ , Jason thinks as he walks slowly towards the front door. The simultaneous familiarity and estrangement of the home looming around him. The superficial appearance of the grounds appears untouched by time, but it’s stagnation does not bring him comfort. It’s unchanging form only makes the differences inside Jason more obvious. The way he knows the world to be, directly conflicting with his memories of how he used to believe it was. His memories of home colliding with the certainty of his alienation. 

_ This is a stupid, stupid plan,  _ he thinks, inching up the stairs to the front patio _. I can still leave. I can- _

Before he can finish the thought, the front door swings open. “Grayson,” Damian says from the doorway, arms crossed against his chest and stance wide. His face is unreadable, silhouetted by the light inside the manor. 

Jason starts, fumbling to think of how Dick would respond. He goes for a simple “Hey!” throwing in as much bubbly-Dick-Grayson intonation as his stomach can handle. 

Damian uncrosses his arms and moves to allow Jason to pass. Jason steps into the manor, glancing around for any sign of Bruce. He watches as Alfred climbs the stairs, disappearing deep into the manor on his nightly cleaning routine. “You have not removed your helmet,” Damian comments, eyes narrowing.

“Oh,” Jason says, surprised. He was unaware it was still on. He rarely comes to the manor out of costume these days; the familiar weight around his head providing a level of privacy he is hesitant to give up. But Dick is the performer who has no secrets, and Jason needs to act the part. He removes the helmet with a sheepish smile.

Damian narrows his eyes further before he tilts his chin up and holds a hand out to Jason, palm up. “Please provide the incriminating evidence,” he says, nose in the air.

“Incriminating— what?” Jason asks, bewildered.

“Your phone, Grayson. Your phone,” he says, exasperatedly. “I shall delete the—no doubt numerous— videos you recorded of the performance.”

“Wait, why?” Jason asks with wide eyes.

Damian drops his arm. “Because I will not be made a fool by others who do not understand art,” he says, his eyes moving from Jason’s eyes to his pockets, looking for the shape of a smartphone. 

Before Jason can respond, Damian pounces, scrambling at his jacket and pockets. Jason staggers backward, attempting to dislodge the tiny gremlin with a twist. He can’t let Damian delete the videos before Dick is able to watch them. Dick seems to care a whole lot about the devil spawn, and he did not want to have to deal with Dick sulking over missing a middle school choir rehearsal. Dick is obnoxious enough already.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Jason says, roughly pushing Damian off and putting two hands up in mock-surrender. Damian grins wickedly, and Jason is suddenly aware that if Damian actually wanted, he would have the phone in his hand by now.  _ He’s playing _ , Jason realizes with a start.

“Relinquish the phone!” Damian cackles as he rushes forward again, head ducked and arms out. Jason braces for the tackle, noticing the intentionally poor technique from the former child assassin. The attack turns into a grapple, arms locked around Jason’s waist, unsuccessfully trying to push him backwards. For a second, Damian stops putting his weight into the attack, arms still locked around Jason. He releases quickly, pushing away from the impromptu hug with the briefest of smiles.

Jason stares, rooted to the spot. Damian looks away, his arms crossing again, but without the air of smugness Jason has grown accustomed to. When Damian turns back, Jason tries to forcibly relax his posture. He knows Dick has a soft spot for the devilspawn; he can’t let his discomfort show.

“Did you—” Damian begins, making eye contact with Jason. “What did you think of the rehearsal?” He asks, his eyes swimming with hope.

Thinking has become increasingly difficult in the last 5 minutes, Jason recognizes numbly. He is still trying to process this side of Damian he didn’t have any idea existed. Damian roughhouses? Damian  _ hugs _ ? Damian has the biological capacity for doe-eyes when he’s worried about someone’s opinion?

“I uh— It was— I did! Like it.” Jason stammers, unprepared. “You were the best singer, by far,” he settles for. 

This seems to appeal to Damian’s pride, and his self-assured grin returns. “I am well aware, Grayson,” Damian says, his shoulders relaxing. Jason watches, amazed at how little Damian is controlling his body language. He’s only seen the little monster in two modes: Impenetrable and smug, or completely infuriated and violent. The level of vulnerability Damian is showing is so uncharacteristic, Jason wonders for a split second if he has also been body-swapped.

“Why did you leave so suddenly?” Damian asks, forcing Jason from his reverie. 

_ Because I couldn’t stand to be in that school a second longer _ , Jason thinks. “I had to get back for something with Tim,” he says instead.

Damian’s eyes darken. “Of course. Drake’s incompetence requires your time yet again” he growls.

“Going for my ‘incompetence’ today, huh?” a voice says behind Damian. As if summoned, Tim appears in the archway to the foyer. “Of the three insults you rotate between, this is the least creative.”

“Why attempt creativity when accuracy will suffice?” Damian spits, rounding on Tim.

Jason crosses his arms and watches in amusement. Something about the bickering between the most recent Robins has always been entertaining. Maybe it’s the fact it sheds a light on the discordance between the idealistic youth living by Batman’s code– a glimpse of Bruce’s failure to keep his  _ good little soldiers _ in line. Maybe it’s the irony of his replacement’s anger at being replaced. Or maybe it is just that their clever insults are hilarious.

He glances at Tim, waiting for his calm-but-scathing retort to Damian’s jibe, but is surprised to find Tim staring right back at him. Damian follows his gaze in confusion, before snapping his attention back to Tim.

“Accuracy? Please,” Tim says, after a short pause. He looks down at Damian. “You’ve got as much intellectual precision as Dick playing scrabble.”

“Do not compare me to the dolt who spelled ‘phoneme’ with an ‘f’!”

“If only you had better hair, you’d be his little brainless mini-me”

“You want to make comparisons? Because right now you look worse than the time Grayson burned off his eyebrow with a firecracker.”

Jason audibly snorts. They were referencing the confabulated story of a 4th of July party gone awry. The “firecracker” had really been a small explosion at one of Scarecrow’s laboratories which singed Dick’s eyebrow and part of his hair. Dick had been mortified. He had drawn on his eyebrow for five months and still wouldn’t let anyone talk about it.

Suddenly, the wind is knocked out of Jason, and he tumbles to the floor. Crouching above him is Damian, holding a candlestick to his neck.

“Where is he?” Tim asks as he walks forward, his voice icy. 

“What— where is who?” Jason says in panic, taken off-guard by the sudden attack. 

“Where is Richard?” Damian asks, his voice gruff and vacant of emotion. The vulnerability Jason saw moments before walled off once again. 

“Dick? I’m—” A candlestick to his throat cuts him off.

“Dick doesn’t sit back and smirk when his brothers argue,” Tim says, eyes narrowing. “And he certainly doesn’t find the ‘firecracker incident’ funny. So, again. Where is he?”

Jason stares back, mind racing. He had hoped the squabbling would distract the young Robins, allowing him to slip into the cave without much notice. He should’ve known better than to underestimate anyone trained by Batman. Studying body language and communicating non-verbally was basically Gotham Vigilante-101. 

He runs through his options. He’s been got, that’s for sure. Jason’s abysmal performance as Dick Grayson already gave him away, and his current suspicious silence isn’t helping any. They know he isn’t Dick, but they don’t know he’s Jason. Judging by their careful avoidance of any topics mask-related, they’re probably not sure if he’s even aware of the connection to the Bats. Playing an overzealous lookalike fan or a shape-shifting reporter would steer him away from the inevitable “Jason can’t be trusted” conversation, but would get him no closer to the cave and finding his own body. 

Jason heaves a sigh. The only viable option is honesty.

“Well?” Damian prompts, nudging his chin with the candlestick.

“I don’t know,” Jason says, truthfully.

“You better start thinking quick then—”

“I don’t know,” Jason interrupts, “but I’m trying to find him.”

“You lost him?” Tim asks, disbelieving.

“No, I never— look, he’s in Russia.”

“You said you did not know where he was” Damian says. He removes the candlestick from Jason’s neck, but retains his suspicious glare.

“I know where _ I _ was about 8 hours ago: eastern Russia. Then I woke up in Dickie-boy’s bedroom. My best guess is we, uh, switched bodies,” Jason finishes lamely. The whole story sounds unbelievable, even to him. “I got captured and tied up, I’m not sure exactly where. But I can narrow down the city, at least.”

“You were tied up? You’re telling me our brother is kidnapped somewhere!?” Tim explodes.

Jason winces. “Come on, that’s not fair. We both know Nightwing can get out of any knot you or I could think of. He’s fine. Probably.”

“Nightwing?” Damian repeats with wide eyes. The candlestick returns to its home in front of Jason’s neck. “Who are you?”

Jason pauses. “Promise not to be mad?” he says with a small smirk.

“No,” they say in unison.

He shrugs, and in one swift movement dislodges Damian from his chest and pushes himself off the floor. Damian readies for another attack, and Tim’s eyes search the room for another weapon. 

Jason puts his hands up for the second time that night, laughing slightly. “No need to get violent, replacement. It’s just me.”

Tim stops, his eyes zeroing in on Jason’s. Damian freezes.

“The prodigal son, and whatnot. Your friendly neighborhood Red Hood,” Jason looks at their stunned faces. “Come on, guys, it’s Jason.”

“If you are who you say you are, violence is more than necessary,” Damian says, and lunges.

============================

A minor scuffle and black eye later, Jason sits at the kitchen island with the two young vigilantes. Tim stands on the other side of the island, a calculating look on his face. Damian sits perched on the counter, looking predictably self-satisfied. Jason shifts the cold-pack on his face and glares at the demonspawn. 

“You’re gonna have to explain this to Dick later,” he says, gesturing with the cold-pack.

Damian opens his mouth to respond, but Tim cuts him off. “How did this happen?” he asks.

“Damian flew at me like the Tasmanian Devil, that’s what—”

“How are you in Dick’s body?” Tim says exasperatedly. 

“Oh, you mean, how did I fuck up this time?” Jason grumbles. “It wasn’t my fault. I got hit with a little magic from some two-bit wizards. I was tracking down a weapons deal in Russia and these nerds in cloaks showed up and mumbled some garbage. Then I woke up in Blüdhaven. Are we done now?” 

“Do you remember the words of the spell?” Tim asks, a notebook already in his hands.

“No, I was dru— It doesn’t matter. I just need to use the cave to locate my body, and then I’ll be out of your hair.”

“And you think Dick is in your body?”

“As much as that thought makes me nauseous, yes. I do. I’d like to rectify that as soon as possible. So, if you’ll excuse me,” Jason says, standing and placing the cold-pack on the kitchen counter. 

Tim steps in front of Jason, blocking his path towards the cave entrance. “What’s your plan?” he says, crossing his arms.

“My plan is to find my body. Are you really the smart one?” Jason says, rolling his eyes. Didn’t the kid realize he was trying to get out of here as soon as humanly possible?

“He is far from intelligent, Todd,” Damian chimes in, “but his point is valid. How do you plan to find your body? And if you do, how do you plan to return Grayson’s consciousness?”

“With a good dose of Nunya,” Jason says as he steps around Tim towards the study. 

Damian leaps off the counter as Tim snatches his arm. “Jason, wait,” Tim pleads.

“Why? So you can interrogate me some more? We both want me out of Dick’s body, and preferably out of Gotham, as quickly as possible, so just get out of my way,” he says, yanking his arm from Tim’s grasp and marching forward. 

He can feel his anger rising, and he waits expectantly for the pit to show its tiny green tendrils. It rarely bothered him anymore, but the Bats had a way of bringing pit madness out of him. He hasn’t noticed any homicidal thoughts yet, but he focuses on controlling his anger, just in case.

“You don’t even know the batcomputer codes,” Tim says behind him.

Jason slows his pace. It’s true he hasn’t had access to the Bat’s system in a while. And he only knew one person smart enough to hack the batcomputer, and Babs isn’t here. He takes an uncertain look back towards Tim and Damian.

“I can figure them out. The password is probably, like, Damian’s birthday or something,” Jason says with an unconvincing shrug.

“Do you _ know _ Damian’s birthday?” Tim asks.

Jason glares at Tim.

“Let us help,” Tim says, softening his voice. “We want to find Dick as much as you do.”

“I don’t need you two watching everything I do,” Jason growls. “I already know you don’t trust me.”

Tim opens his mouth to deny Jason’s statement but is cut off by a huff from Damian.

“Why do we need to trust you?” Damian says, strutting past Jason towards the grandfather clock. “Until Grayson is returned, you’re in a body 6 inches shorter and 40 pounds lighter. Yet you still fight like a heavy-weight. You pose very little threat.”

Damian opens the entrance to the cave and looks back towards the other two. Jason feels his shoulders tense in defiance. After a moment, Tim chuckles quietly and moves towards the clock himself, nudging Jason as he passes. He descends into the dimly-lit cave with a small nod to Damian.

“You also have very little choice in the matter,” Damian declares, following his brother into the dark.

Jason stares at the cave entryway. He clenches his fists, squeezes his eyes shut, and allows himself a short mental scream. His breath releases in a huff and his shoulders slump in defeat. 

He follows his replacements into the cave, closing the entrance behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title from "Hungover in the City of Dust" by Autoheart.
> 
> Sorry it took so long to get this one done. Finals week ^^' Updates for this will continue to be fairly sporadic, most likely. 
> 
> Thank you for all the comments! They've been keeping me going :)


	6. Let Our Hearts Run Round in Circles While We Fall Apart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick brushes up on his Russian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from "Hungover in the City of Dust" by Autoheart.

A soft metallic whine cuts through the muffled quiet of the empty twilight. Rusted hinges creak in protest as Dick pushes the bunker door open against the snowdrift. A cloud of condensation forms as he huffs a sigh of relief. Dick had managed to escape the compound while avoiding any further violence. 

The snow crunches beneath his heavy combat boots as he creeps towards the vehicles parked near the east wall of the bunker. Dick flinches at the sound. He isn’t sure of the guard detail outside, and he hasn’t quite adapted Batman’s rigorous stealth training to his new shape.

Peeking around the edge of the building, Dick scans the lot for any men posted outside. He spots a squat man sitting near the door to the main entrance, hunched against the cold. A large assault rifle casually sits propped against his thigh. A tall woman stands on his left, her assault rifle leaning against the building behind her as she tries to light a cigarette. 

“ _ Blyad _ ” she curses as the wind blows out her lighter for the third time. 

Dick pulls his head back and eyes the vehicles. They’re mostly within the visibility of the two guards, but the rightmost military jeep is partially obscured by the large SUV next to it. He weighs his options, and decides with the sunrise coming soon, his best option is to move now in the cover of snowfall and darkness. 

Dick removes the red hood, and tucks it beneath Jason’s jacket. The dark brown leather of the jacket doesn’t exactly blend in with the snow, but it’s a little bit stealthier in the dark than a bright-red beacon on his head. He listens to the stream of curses from the female guard, waiting for the best time to creep out into the open, towards the jeep.

When the squat man tells her to “ _ shut up _ ” in Russian, Dick makes his move. He ducks his head into a low run, hoping the wind and the ensuing argument will cover the sound of his footsteps through the snow. 

The argument continues without interruption as Dick slides beside the Jeep, hidden once again from the guards. Or, at least hidden until they decide to walk the perimeter and see his footprints in the snow.

He works quickly, climbing into the car, placing the red hood on the passenger seat, and briefly searching for keys. No luck. Thankfully, one of Jason’s numerous jacket pockets had some spare bits of wire , likely for the express purpose of hotwiring a car. Jay is similar to Bruce in that way. Always prepared. Like a little criminal boyscout.

Dick smiles at the thought of a leather jacket with merit badges on it as he removes a small panel below the ignition switch. His recently relocated thumb throbs as he begins the delicate work. He connects the appropriate wires, causing the dashboard lights to illuminate. A soft chime indicates the door is open and the battery has been connected. 

The guard’s steady bickering continues, and Dick readies himself. He won’t be able to escape detection once the engine starts. He places his left hand on the steering wheel, and hovers his foot over the pedals. With his right hand, he connects the starter wires briefly, and the engine roars to life. His hand flies to the gearshift as the bickering turns to confused shouting. 

Dick places the car in “drive,” but just as he hits the gas, the engine cuts off. The shouting is rapidly getting closer, and he tries again to start the engine. It runs for another second and abruptly stops. Wide eyed, Dick attempts to start it a third time, but is interrupted by several bullets shattering the windshield. He ducks his head below the dashboard, trying desperately to start the car and think of a back-up plan. 

Out of nowhere, a horn blares, and a dark van careens across the snow, coming to a halt between the guards and the jeep.

“ _ Get in _ !” a deep voice shouts in Russian.

Without the time to think twice, Dick grabs the hood next to him, scrambles out of the stalled jeep, and sprints towards the van. He throws himself through the open car door and slams it shut. Bullets hammer the side of the van and Dick gets low, praying he didn’t move from one vehicle deathtrap to another. He hears the wheels briefly spin in place before they gain traction in the snow and the vehicle flies forward. 

====

The gunfire soon ceases as the van gains some distance from the compound. Dick gently rolls to his back and stares at the ceiling of the van, gripping Jason’s hood loosely in his left hand. He wills his heart rate down into a reasonable pace, staring at the van’s new bullet holes. He wonders if they are all new decorative additions, or if any had existed before his rescue. He tries not to extrapolate the path of the bullet for a hole near his head.

“It’s pretty lucky they didn’t aim for the tires, huh?” Dick says, tilting his head back to look upside-down at his mystery savior.

“ _ What is _ ‘lucky’ _ is that I followed your sorry ass after they dragged you out of the bar, _ ” the man spits back in Russian. 

Dick processes this information. Jason was at a bar (not a surprise given his smell and receding hangover headache). Jason was dragged out of said bar. Jason’s friend is pissed. Jason’s friend, with his hulking form barely fitting in the front seat, does not seem like the kind of person you want to piss off. Dick rolls back over and crawls into the passenger seat, red hood resting on his lap.

“ _ Thank you _ ,” Dick replies in Russian, attempting his best gruff-Jason-Todd.

“ _ You thank me now? I told you. I  _ told _ you, ‘Do not go drink-for-drink with these men.’ And guess what you do?”  _ He turns to glare at Dick, eyes leaving the road for an uncomfortably unsafe amount of time.

“ _ It’s all a little fuzzy, how many guesses do I get? _ ” Dick quips, eyes nervously glancing between the driver and the road. 

The man rolls his eyes and turns back towards the road. Dicks head swarms with questions he is unable to ask. Who are you? What is your name? How do you know Jason? How long has Jason been here? Where is Jason’s phone? Even a simple “where are we going?” could blow his cover. He waits, hoping relevant information will arise naturally. The two lapse into an uncomfortable silence.

“ _ Well, you escaped, at least, _ ” the man sighs, several minutes later, startling Dick.

“ _ Yeah, it was… _ ” Dick trails off, wondering how much his getaway driver knows about the weapons-smuggling. “ _ They were pretty terrible at kidnapping _ ,” he amends.

_ “Ha! It is no surprise they were unable to hold you,”  _ the man says, eyes twinkling. His anger dissipates, reshaping into jovial admiration. “Death himself would not be able to hold you, Red Hood,” he finishes in English. 

“ _ And you know Death has tried, _ ” Dick says, unable to fully mirror the man’s humor. He’s heard it before. Most of Gotham’s criminal underground superstitiously believe Red Hood can’t be killed. Some believe he’s a demon or an angel of vengeance. Some wonder if he’s being cloned. Some think he’s made a deal with Death. But Dick knows the ugly truth. Red Hood can die. Jason  _ has _ died. It just didn’t stick.

He falls back into silence, eyes focusing on the empty road ahead of them. Dick wishes, not for the first time, for simplicity. He wishes he could just be happy Jay is back. He wishes he could just love his brother, unconditionally. He wishes Jay would trust him and that he could trust Jay. 

But the year Jason returned was bloody. Dick tried, and tried, and  _ tried  _ to get through to Jason, but eventually he started to lose hope. Then the traitorous, insidious thought entered his brain: Jason came back wrong. His brother was gone. And the worst thought of all, the one he would never admit to anyone, the one he wished he could bleach from his brain: Jason should have stayed dead.

Dick looks down from the road and closes his eyes. Jay’s eyes. He doesn’t believe that, he didn’t even believe it then. But the thought kept returning that year. Like a ball he tried to force underwater, the more strength he used to push it down, the higher it sprang back up. And there were so many fights. So many injuries and broken baby birds. So many ways the parasitic thought could justify it’s residence in Dick’s brain.

Eventually, Jason left Gotham altogether, and Dick felt simultaneous relief and guilt. When Jason returned and agreed to play nice, Dick resolved to try again. Jason was changing, thanks in no small part to Roy and Kori who refused to give up on him. Jason deserved a brother who didn’t give up, either.

And it is working. Slowly. Things are tense when he teams up with the bats, but they hadn’t been violent in a long time. Jay refuses to come back to the manor, but he has allowed Dick into his safe-house a few times. He is on a few family group-chats that he never responds to, but Dick has a feeling he reads them. Sometimes Dick feels like they are getting closer, and then Jason will disappear for a few weeks. (Turns out this time he disappeared to Russia.) Things are easier now, but they are far from simple.

The man next to him clears his throat, clearly impatient with Dick’s ruminative silence. Dick pushes his thoughts away and schools his face into a neutral frown. “What?” He asks. 

“ _ We will need to go back to the base, I think. I watched them for hours. The guards were armed to the teeth. It might be connected to the weapons-smuggling ring _ ,” the driver says, all business.

“ _ It is _ ,” Dick says, debating how much more to share with his savior. He’s still not sure what kind of partnership Jay has with this man. He doubts he even knows Jason’s name. But he knows Jason is searching for the weapon smugglers, and he  _ did _ have the common decency to save him from getting shot in a stalled car.

“ _ The building is a holding facility _ ,” Dick continues, deciding to trust him with the mission. Based on available evidence, this man is on his side. For now. 

_ “It is? How did you find out? _ ”

‘ _ I found their communications room. It had information on everything. Chats, plans, deals  _ ...” He pauses, wondering how to say “schematics” in Russian. “. _..pictures of how to make things _ .  _ I’ve got the evidence connecting this all the way back to Gotham. _ ”

_ “Ha! Your drunken competition paid off! _ ” the man exclaims, smacking the steering wheel in glee.  _ “And Black Mask?” _

_ “Chat logs and payment records from the past 7 months proving his guilt,” _ Dick says with a smug smile. 

The man’s triumphant laugh fills the car, setting Dick at ease. He begins to ramble about how they should celebrate back at the safe-house. When he mentions pouring shots, Dick’s stomach rolls and he levels a glare at the man, who just laughs once more. Eventually, the two lapse into a more comfortable silence. Dick attempts to formulate his next steps to get home, but his brain is foggy from the alcohol and lack of sleep. 

Feeling the beginning of his inevitable adrenaline crash, Dick rests his chin in his hand and stares out the window. His mind wanders to memories of simpler times. He allows the snapshots of smiles and laughter to drift through his head, eventually blending into an overall feeling of calm.

His thoughts settle into peaceful silence as he watches the sun rise over the trees. 

====

“Hood!” A rough hand on Dick’s shoulder jostles him awake. He starts, unaware he had fallen asleep and a little concerned he did so in an unfamiliar environment. He must really be running on fumes. His head whips over to the driver, who puts his hands up in surrender.

“ _ Sorry to wake you, but we need to make a stop,”  _ he says _. _

_ “We’re not going to the safe house?”  _ Dick asks, confused.

_ “Not yet,”  _ he says, opening the car door and stepping out. He pauses, looking back at Dick.  _ “Bring the hood,”  _ he says before slamming the car door and walking towards a run-down shopping complex.

Shaking himself awake, Dick scrambles after the mountain of a man. Halfway out of the car, he shoves his head into the hood, and a quick whiff of his own breath reminds him to turn on the hood’s fan. The driver slips into an alley between the two storefronts. Dick follows, his shameless yawn obscured by the red helmet. 

Once hidden in the shadows of the two buildings, the man turns to Dick with a dark look. “ _ I got a call about the location of the drug ring leaders _ ,” he says.

“ _ And that location is here, _ ” Dick says as he eyes the dilapidated buildings surrounding them.

“ _ This is your chance to repay me. For my heroic rescue.” _

“So you didn’t just save me out of the goodness of your heart?” Dick mumbles in English. 

“ _ My heart has a limited supply of goodness, I can’t waste it on you _ ,” he quips back with a small smirk. “ _ And you promised to help. _ ” 

Dick remains quiet, unsure of how to continue. He was completely unaware of this promise. He wonders what other kinds of deals Jason has made. The Red Hood isn’t a stranger to working with criminals to take down worse criminals. Jason has a particular knack for finding seedy-dive-bars serving henchmen and low-level gangsters. He charms, intimidates, and threatens his way through the criminal underbelly until he’s gathered enough information and made enough deals to achieve his mission. Dick wonders with dread about what he’s expected to do. What violence was promised?

After a full minute of silence, the driver grunts in annoyance. “ _ Well _ ?” He asks.

“ _ Are you--“  _ Dick swallows _. “What are you planning to do to them? _ ”

The driver rolls his eyes. “ _ You do not need to hesitate. I already promised to play by your rules.” _

Dick narrows his eyes.

The driver rolls his eyes again, this time tilting his chin up in frustration.  _ “I will not kill anyone,” _ he responds in a bored tone _.  _

Dick blinks rapidly, his uncontrolled jaw-drop hidden by the hood. 

_ “We are agreed? _ ”

“We-”

“ _ You will help? _ ”

“I--” 

“ _ You promised to help. _ ”

_ “I did—” _

_ “You will, then?” _

_ “I—I will _ ,” Dick says, his brain still trying and failing to rectify the cognitive dissonance between “Jason” and “set a no-killing rule.”

“ _ Good _ ,” the driver says, oblivious to Dick’s mental turmoil. “ _ They are expecting me. I will approach them alone.” _

_ “Where will I be?”  _ Dick asks, his tactical mind taking over.

_ “You will remain hidden. If I need assistance, you will assist.” _

The two discuss the various entry points to the building and what to expect once inside. The driver briefly discusses the men they will be facing and how he will try to negotiate with them, while Dick strategizes how best to intervene if negotiations go poorly. They hash out their plan for several minutes, before the driver grunts in approval.

_ “This will work, _ ” he says, nodding. They stand, ready to move to their positions. 

“ _ No killing? _ ” Dick hurriedly questions as the driver turns to walk away. He wants to double-check he didn’t just hallucinate the most striking revelation he’s had in the last two years.

  
“ _ No killing.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... it's been a little while between updates. Things got (and continue to be) pretty hectic on my end. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me! :) I promise I haven't forgotten about this and I intend to see it through, even if it takes me a while.
> 
> Shout-out to Kayla and Devin for helping me edit. You guys are the best <3
> 
> Back to Jason POV next chapter.


	7. Let Our Minds Run Round in Circles While We Figure It All Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jason tries to figure it out and (reluctantly) receives some help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Title is from “Hungover in the City of Dust” by Autoheart

“Anything?”

“We need something more than ‘underground bunker,’” Damian says, eyes scanning a map of the Kamchatka peninsula. 

“The hood doesn’t have any locators?” Tim calls across the cave.

Jason leans back on a display case several feet away from the batcomputer, pretending to study his nails. “Why would I want you guys to be able to find me?” 

“Why indeed,” Damian mutters.

“Would you quit sulking and just come help?” Tim says with an exaggerated eye roll, “brooding looks wrong on Dick’s face, anyway.”

Jason rearranges his expression into the classic Richie Grayson smile, usually reserved for the snotty Gotham elite that Bruce’s first ward is forced to appease on occasion. A smile with all charm and no substance. A smile that always hides a silent “fuck you” right behind the teeth. Tim recognizes the look immediately and scowls, eliciting a snicker from Jason. He may have been strong-armed into collaborating with Thing 1 and Thing 2, but he doesn’t have to be nice about it. 

Still laughing, Jason pushes himself off of the display case and saunters over to the computer. He leans over Damian’s chair to get a closer look at the satellite images displayed on the screen, and scans for Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices Damian’s posture straighten, so minutely he might’ve imagined it. 

Glancing down, Jason tries to read Damian’s blank expression. He looks just like Bruce, and nothing like the 12-year-old from 40 minutes ago who wanted his—Dick’s—praise more than anything. Jason lets out a slow breath and mentally kicks himself.  _ Great job, asshole _ , he thinks.  _ You ruined the only trusting relationship this kid had. _

Tim approaches quietly to sit on the console, back towards the screen. Leaning casually on his arms, he looks relaxed, but his positioning is clear. Face the real threat. “Anything?” he asks, repeating Jason’s question in a bored tone.

Jason glances at him before pointing to a small city outside of Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky. “That’s the last place I remember being,” he says. 

“But you were transported somewhere else?”   
  
“I mean, probably. I lost some time when they knocked me out. They could’ve brought me anywhere. I vaguely remember a car.”

“And how long were you unconscious?” Tim asks, picking up his notebook again and scribbling down notes.

“How would I know? No one gave me the time when they were interrogating me.”

Tim huffs. “What time was it before you got knocked out?”

“About 3:00,” Jason says, falling into the familiar pattern of a mission debrief. 

“How long did you talk to them?” 

“Less than 10 minutes.”

“Okay, do you know when you woke up in Dick’s body?”

“Around 11:00.”

“Wait, you’ve been Dick for almost 12 hours?” Tim asks looking up from the notebook. Damian's hands tense on the mouse, but he says nothing as he continues looking at satellite images of the small town. Tim takes a step towards Jason “Why didn’t you—”

“I was handling it,” Jason snarls.

Tim takes several more steps forward, hands gesticulating their frustration. “Clearly not, since it’s been almost  _ 12 hours—” _

“—I don’t need you to tell me how long it’s—”

“—Dick is missing and you’re—“

“Less than 60 mile radius,” Damian interrupts, swinging his chair away from the screen to glare at the two of them. “ _ If _ we assume they were able to get you in and out of a car under ten minutes, which is unlikely given Jason’s bulk, and  _ if _ they were able to travel at the speed limit, also unlikely given the snow storm that recently hit the area, and  _ if _ we assume you talked for less than ten minutes, which I find hard to believe because you won’t shut up now…” Damian takes a breath as his glare turns icy. “You only have one hour unaccounted for when converting from Kamchatka’s time to eastern time. If they were able to be on the road for 45 minutes, at the top legal speed for the roads in the area, they would have only been able to travel about 56.25 miles.”

“What makes you think they wouldn’t go above legal speeds?” Jason challenges.

“They were kidnapping someone, why would they draw more attention to themselves by speeding?” Damian responds, swinging back towards the computer. “75 miles per hour is a more than generous calculation given how icy the roads would have been.”

“We still don’t know if they’ve taken Dick somewhere else in the last twelve hours, however,” Tim says as he steps towards the computer again, his voice returning to his professional Red Robin cadence. Jason knows this means he is done with the fight, but Jason has never been that good at backing down.

Jason glares at the back of Tim’s head, trying (and failing) to control his breathing. This is exactly why he didn’t want them involved. He doesn’t need their blame. He already knows they don’t trust him. He already knows he doesn’t belong here anymore.

A sharp sting pricks Jason’s eyes and he blinks away small tears. That’s strange. He can’t remember the last time he cried. The pit always soothes him with a violent distraction.

“There’s a small factory here,” Tim says pointing to the screen. “Could this be it?”

Jason coughs to clear the tightness in his throat and tries to quickly compose himself. The hood would be nice right about now. 

“No,” Jason grunts. “I’m telling you, the room was built like a bomb-shelter. No windows, thick concrete, low ceilings. It wasn’t a factory.”

“Maybe you were in a basement?” Tim suggests. “There are no official records of any bunkers within our radius.”

Jason studies the screen. “I’ve been in that factory. I scoped out most of the large buildings in the area when I first got to the city. I would’ve recognized it.”

“What  _ were _ you doing in Russia? Maybe that would help us connect—“

Tim stops as a new window opens on the screen. A shaky video feed shows a man wearing a bulletproof vest charging at the camera, only to be stopped by the fist of a spiked black gauntlet. The camera pans up to reveal a hardware store in Old Gotham.

“Batcave,” Batman’s voice rings through the computer, “I have found the latest Scarecrow hideout. It seems he’s hired guards through Black Mask to protect his laboratory. Requesting assistance from available parties.”

“Message received,” Damian says as he stands. “Red Robin and I are on our way.”

Tim’s eyes dart to Jason and back to the video feed. Jason shakes his head, trying to make eye contact with Tim. “Batman,” Tim begins, eyes staring resolutely at the screen, “Nightwing is here.”

“No, he’s not,” Jason hisses to Tim.

“Nightwing,” Batman repeats in an even tone that Jason recognizes– the vocal equivalent of Batman’s cowl, hiding whatever he doesn’t want anyone else to know. “The three of us should be more than enough. Nightwing’s assistance will not be necessary.”

“Understood,” Damian says, ending the communication line and heading towards the lockers. Jason catches Tim’s arm before he can follow his brother. 

“What the fuck,” he growls.

“If you’re planning to use the computer, it won’t take him long to figure out someone is here. Better let him know it’s you and not let him assume it’s a supervillain,” Tim says with a shrug.

“Yeah, that’s the problem. I don’t want him to know it’s me.”

“We both know keeping secrets from Batman doesn’t work for long.”

“I dunno, it took him a pretty long time to figure out I was alive. I think I can manage one night.”

“He can help,” Tim pleads.

“He can go fuck himself,” Jason retorts as he releases his arm. “Don’t tell him, Tim. I mean it. Just let me figure this out.”

Tim opens his mouth and snaps it shut. Jason watches the muscles in his jaw shift under the skin as he clenches his teeth. “Fine,” Tim says, “figure it out.”

=======================

An hour later, Jason sits cursing at a map of the Kamchatka Peninsula. He already examined security footage of the factories, storefronts, abandoned hospitals, and storage units Damian flagged. With the obvious locations ruled out, and no official records of a building the size and construction of the place he was housed in, Jason is left clicking through 60 square miles worth of forest tundra satellite images, searching for a building that shouldn’t be there.

His mind starts to wander as he follows a remarkably unremarkable roadway. This wasn’t how he wanted this to go. The Robins getting involved wasn’t the plan. Getting instantly transported to Bluudhaven and walking around as Dickie wasn’t the plan. The plan was shot to hell the minute he realized his interrogators could do actual magic. So here he is with no plan, no goddamn clue where Dick is, and no fucking idea what to do once he finds him. And Tim, the smug bastard, is probably telling Batman all about Jason’s directionless fuck-up.

Before he can stop himself, Jason’s thoughts shift to Bruce. Jason knows that never leads to anything good, but a recklessly curious part of his mind is telling him to open the box tonight. It wants to find those little green tendrils. 

Things between the two of them have been less violent recently, but they aren’t fixed. Playing by Batman’s rules doesn’t mean Bruce trusts him. It’s been made very clear to Jason that he will never be able to go back and undo the last few years. The best that Batman and Red Hood will ever be is reluctant allies– nothing more to each other than extra bodies to throw in the fight. Information is shared between them on a permanent need-to-know basis. It’s a relationship to be used and discarded. 

For the second time that night, Jason’s eyes water. This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Clutching unfamiliar hair in rough fists, this time he lets the tears flow. They carve wet paths on his cheeks. It’s as if the script he’s been dutifully following since he took a swim in the Lazarus Pit has been taken from him. Suddenly every emotion previously shaded by fury’s shadow is getting hit by the full force of the sun. He feels exposed and raw. There’s no rage to protect him, only the unfiltered knowledge that he is insignificant and flawed. He doesn’t want this. This isn’t how things are supposed to be.

Thoughts blend together as Jason’s emotions wash over him. The computer screen dims from disuse and the silence is broken only by the occasional fluttering bat somewhere deep in the cave. His tears only last a few minutes, but it’s not until the computer goes into sleep mode that he forces himself to untangle his fingers from his scalp.

Jason blinks at his reflection in the darkened monitor. Dick’s black eye has swelled from the crying, and his hair is disheveled. He scrubs his face with a hand and attempts to pat down his hair, feeling for the first time disrespectful in Dick’s form. He can’t seem to make eye-contact with the now-reddened blue eyes. Instead, he banishes the image altogether by illuminating the computer screen with a click. 

The roar of a motorcycle engine makes him jump. He thought he would have the cave to himself for several more hours. Even for a school night, the birds are back early. Jason groans and shuts his eyes, preparing himself for round two of their “help.” 

His eyes snap open when the motor stops and the footsteps that dismount the bike are heavier than any 130-pound-highschooler.

He swivels in his chair and watches Bruce glance towards his movement before limping towards the medbay. Frozen in his seat, Jason stares as his childhood mentor methodically retrieves isopropyl alcohol, gauze, surgical thread, and other necessary medical supplies. His eyes follow Bruce as he strips his outer gear, revealing a dark stain near his hip, slowly growing under the black undershirt. Jason reflexively winces when Bruce lifts his shirt and reveals two deep stab wounds.

Moving quickly, Bruce injects a local anesthetic and begins cleaning the wound. While suturing, he seems to register that he’s still being watched and raises his head towards the computer. A feeling akin to a student being caught in a teacher’s lounge comes over Jason and he straightens in his chair.

“Yes?,” Bruce asks, pausing his one-man surgery. 

“Nothing,” Jason says quickly. “Do you, uh… I can help if you-”

“No,” Bruce interrupts. “I am almost finished.”

Silence falls again, and Jason slowly rotates back to the computer, heart bashing itself against his ribcage. He had been hoping to avoid interaction with Bruce altogether, which normally is not a difficult feat. The Dark Knight only leaves the streets of Gotham before sunrise when he’s injured or incapacitated. If he survived this night, he was going to find that goon that stabbed Batman with a military-grade armor-piercing knife and shove the handle so far up that man’s-

“What are you researching?”

Jason involuntarily jolts forward. “JESUS, Bats. Do you get off on sneaking up behind people?”

“What is in Kamchatka?”

“I know you purposely tried to walk silently; you were limping earlier. How’d you get stabbed, huh?”

“Dick,” Bruce says, causing Jason to snap his mouth shut. Tim didn’t blow his cover afterall, but this argument is getting dangerously close to doing just that. He really isn’t prepared to fool the World’s Greatest Detective into believing he’s the detective’s oldest son.

Bruce scans Jason’s face briefly, but before they make eye-contact, he jerks his head back to the computer screen. A subtle look of discomfort bleeds through Bruce’s passive expression, and Jason realizes belatedly his face is still puffy from crying. He sniffs and wipes his nose on his sleeve, heat slowly building in his cheeks.

“I went to Damian’s concert,” Jason says, trying to change the subject. 

Bruce’s eyes flick again to Jason, before resting once again on the screen.

“He’s good.”

“I know he’s good, he’s my son,” Bruce snaps.

“I know, I just...” he trails off, wary of the sudden tension emanating from Bruce. Has he blown his cover already? “I thought since you weren’t able to make it—”

“We do not need to have this conversation again, Dick,” Bruce says in a clipped tone. “I was busy.”

Silence stretches as Jason tries to collect his thoughts. Where is this hostility coming from? Dick can hold an easy conversation with anyone. Golden Boy gets along with  _ everyone _ . Why does this feel like every conversation Jason’s had with Bruce since crawling out of the ground? Shouldn’t this be easier? Don’t Bruce and Dick get along?

“Did you at least catch Scarecrow?” Jason eventually asks, unable to bear the quiet any longer.

Bruce turns his head to Jason, watching him warily as if gauging his intentions. “Yes,” he eventually responds, “Robin and Red Robin are in the process of wrapping up dismantling Crane’s lab. Spoiler should be joining them shortly.”

“How’d they get the drop on  _ you _ ?”

Bruce pauses. “I entered the situation with inaccurate data. Historically, Black Mask’s men have not possessed weapons that could penetrate my body armor. This is no longer the case.”

_ I could’ve told you that, _ Jason thinks bitterly.

“I need to investigate their new supplier,” Bruce continues, “so if you are done with the computer-”

Jason laughs. “Good news, B, I already know their supplier and I’m already on it. No need to research. Go have a wonderful evening watching Netflix and trying not to itch your stitches.”

“You’re on it,” Bruce repeats, skeptical.

“I am.”

“How?” 

Jason gestures to the computer. He begins to scroll through satellite imagery again for emphasis.

“They’re in Russia.”

Jason nods. “I’ve tracked the supplier to a small town near Petropavlovsk-Kamchatsky.”

“Black Mask is moving operations to Bludhaven, then.”

“What?” Jason whips his head up, “No. If anything, he’s trying to expand his territory in Gotham.”

Bruce narrows his eyes, “Why are you involved then?”

The suspicion in Bruce’s voice gives Jason pause, but he is prepared for this question. “Red Hood clued me into the whole thing. We’ve been working the case together for a few weeks. I’m trying to find their bunker, but there’s no official address or records of construction.” Bruce’s eyebrows raise, but he says nothing. He leans in, examining the satellite image more closely. 

“What?” Jason asks warily.

“Jason asked for help.”

“That’s so surprising?” 

“Yes,” Bruce says simply. “Where is he now?”

He clicks the mouse a few times before responding,“that’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?”

“You don’t—”

“—I’m figuring it out,” Jason interrupts, his annoyance rising. If everyone could just get off his back for twelve seconds, that’d be great. No one even cared Jason was missing until it wasn’t Jason anymore. “Last contact I had from him was at 10:47, around here,” he says, pointing to the small city. “I think they knocked him out and brought him back to their base of operations,” pointedly clicking the mouse again.

Bruce grunts in acknowledgement as he focuses on the screen. Minutes pass as Jason continues his search, trying to ignore the six-foot-two man hovering beside him. Eventually, Bruce moves from Jason’s side, wordlessly gesturing for the mouse and keyboard. 

“I’m not done,” Jason says, his hand possessively gripping the mouse. 

“This is taking too long,” Bruce says.

“Taking too-” Jason sputters “It’s not like they have a neon sign saying ‘Bad Guys!’ Are you giving up on finding him already? Five minutes in and ‘oh, this isn’t worth my time’?”

Bruce stops Jason with an icy glare. “Instead of spending hours clicking through 60 square miles of satellite imagery hoping to catch a glance of a snow-covered bunker, I’d like to spend  _ my time _ implementing an algorithm to track vehicle movement patterns in the area. So I can find Jason. Does that sound like giving up?”

Without waiting for a response, Bruce grabs the mouse and opens a window of code on another screen. Jason can tell he hit a sore spot, so he sits quietly as Bruce types. He considers offering his chair, but before he works up the courage to speak again, Bruce is finished. He smashes the Enter key, initiating the retroactive surveillance protocol. 

The screen flickers, and hours of satellite footage begins racing across the screen. Thin, red squares populate the screen, following all vehicular traffic in the area. As the program runs, boxes begin to disappear, eventually leaving twelve slightly larger squares with thicker borders scattered across the map. Jason leans in to examine the locations while Bruce types another command into the computer. The screen blinks again, and nine more boxes vanish. 

“Here are three unlisted destinations with regular vehicular traffic within the search radius, cross-referenced with possible window of abduction,” Bruce reports. A few more keyed commands, and the three locations enlarge to fill the entire screen. Jason immediately disregards the small hunting cottage with a two-seater sedan parked outside. There’s no way the four protein-powder junkies who knocked him out could fit in that car with his unconscious body. He turns his attention to the second location, a snow-covered complex surrounded by several large vehicles. The computer cycles to the next grainy image of the area, timestamped 3:34, and Jason notices the new arrival of a white van with two men in the process of stepping out. The next image, taken at 3:54, shows the van with it’s headlights off. The next image is the same, showing very little movement besides what appears to be two guards circling the perimeter of the building. 

He’s about to inform Bruce of his suspicion for this location, when the next image cycles through. A dark van with it’s brights on is parked perpendicular to the complex, with it’s driver’s-side barn-door wide open. Lower in frame, he can see a figure sprinting towards the van, holding what looks like a motorcycle helmet under his arm. The back door of the van is lighter than the rest, and Jason suspects if the satellite imagery was in color, he would be able to make out the faded red of the replacement door Mishka installed a few weeks ago. 

A chuckle rumbles out of Jason before he can contain it. “ Yest' medved' ,” he says softly.

“We found him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yest' medved = "There is the bear" according to google translate. 
> 
> Gosh, I'm really sorry this took so long. I hope the next few chapters are up a little more quickly. Thank you all for sticking around <3


End file.
